Chapter 828: Discussing State Affairs on the Golf Course

After sending off the relatively unknown lobbyist from the Duncan family, Congressman Landon shook his head with a bitter smile.

It had been an unpleasant lobbying experience—like someone sticking their fingers up his nose and stirring things around, then asking if it felt good.

Whether it felt good or not, it definitely hurt and stung, bringing tears to his eyes—and yet, he couldn’t outright refuse it.

He had worked hard to secure this position, hadn’t even warmed the seat yet, so how could he risk being adjusted out of office by rejecting the Duncan family’s lobbyist?

Congressmen and senators are all members of Congress, but there’s still a significant difference between them.

The difference in numbers alone reflects the disparity in status. There are far fewer senators than representatives, and in major committees, senators tend to have greater representation—even though they all claim equality.

Most importantly, representatives can be quickly replaced. When a party decides to shift its legislative strategy, they can easily swap out representatives without strong political backing.

Cooperative ones get moved to other positions, maybe a state senator somewhere.

Uncooperative ones can be kicked out for almost any reason.

Landon himself had no deep political background, and even he had managed to maneuver his way into Congress—though at the cost of a mayoral position.

So if someone wanted to take him down, it wouldn’t cost more than a small-town mayor’s job—likely even less.

It’s like defense always requires more investment than offense—in money, resources, and energy. He had to ensure the security of his position; personal honor was far less important.

He turned to look at the bright sunshine outside the window, though his mood was far from sunny.

Under the same sunshine, Mr. Geruno was playing golf with Mr. Fitch.

Though it was late January and still cold, older men feared the chill of the outdoors most.

Cold winds are like invisible blades—they cut through clothing and flesh, leaving a biting chill in one’s bones.

So they chose to play indoors. An indoor golf course, with special glass ceilings that still let in the sunlight.

There were no long fairways here, only greens.

Players start at a point, hit directly onto the green, and then putt. While it lacks the dramatic swings, for golf lovers, it’s still a great way to unwind.

Mr. Geruno was standing by his ball, constantly adjusting the angle of his putter, testing different strengths, fully focused on this shot, not even speaking.

After about twenty seconds, he gently tapped the ball. It rolled steadily across the undulating grass and dropped straight into the hole. He pumped his fist and casually tossed his club—worth tens of thousands—toward the caddie like it was nothing.

“Nice shot!” Mr. Fitch clapped politely.

Mr. Fitch was short, with thinning, graying hair. He looked like a serious, ordinary man.

Walking down the street, 99% of people wouldn’t recognize they had just passed one of the most powerful men in the Federation—he was just that inconspicuous.

But in federal politics, no one dared ignore him—no one could.

Mr. Geruno took off his gloves and stepped aside. “I had a feeling—it was going in.”

He smiled. For someone who loved golf, sinking a shot was deeply satisfying.

The caddie placed a new ball on the marker and carefully removed the mark.

Mr. Fitch tightened his gloves, took his own expensive club, and set up for the shot.

Unlike Geruno, he didn’t take long to aim. Within ten seconds, he swung. The ball rolled unpredictably across the green but kept heading for the hole.

Both men held their breath. When the ball finally dropped, Fitch’s face lit up with a smile. “Looks like we’re tied again.”

The caddie brought over the scorecard. He glanced at it casually. “Thought I remembered right.”

With a cheerful chuckle, he handed the club back to the caddie, keeping his gloves on, and walked with Geruno to the next green.

This facility had many indoor greens, with regularly changing terrain features to allow for more variety—some complex, some simple, some bumpy, some smooth.

As they walked, they chatted.

“This time you’re pushing too fast. We still have some concerns about the Security Act…”

Since Geruno brought up the proposal, both parties had begun reviewing it. As for the Socialist Party… well, their presence or absence didn’t make much difference.

There’s a deeply ingrained belief in the Federation:

Capitalists control wealth, politicians control power, the military controls armed force.

From the past to now, even though capitalists have steadily infiltrated politics and the military, when it comes to matters of principle, no one yields.

The Security Act clearly tests whether the boundaries have shifted. It’s a worrying sign—but they’ve come prepared with the right excuses.

Currently, to protect its international image, the federal government avoids openly deploying troops. Even the forces sent to Nagaryll are supposedly volunteer veterans.

They’re not officially deployed by the federal government or the military. They are independently contracted by the local governments to maintain peace.

The federal government has nothing to do with it. And supposedly, neither do the capitalists.

But this kind of situation could only happen in Nagaryll. It wouldn’t work elsewhere. The Federation wouldn’t risk being labeled aggressors by interfering globally.

Even with naval escorts, those only protect specific sea routes. Capitalists still face problems during actual operations.

“From the government’s standpoint, you can demand that other countries respect and protect our businessmen’s legal rights—but you can’t resolve things beyond the law.”

“Thugs, gangs, lowlifes—they exist everywhere. They operate outside both legal and moral oversight. If their own governments can’t control them, how could a government from a country they’ve never even set foot in?”

The two men walked up the steps. About a hundred meters ahead was another course.

The caddie followed at a distance. Important figures like them didn’t enjoy having others hovering nearby while they talked.

After listening, Mr. Fitch seemed thoughtful. Mr. Geruno continued, “The idea that Federals are wealthy has become a global consensus. In regions where our influence is weak, incidents of kidnapping, hijacking, and robbery targeting Federals happen frequently.”

“Local governments either do nothing or even protect the perpetrators, leaving our businessmen with no choice but to absorb the losses and leave. Some even pay with their lives.”

“If you can’t protect us, can’t we at least protect ourselves?”

At the door, Mr. Geruno gestured for Mr. Fitch to go first.

Mr. Fitch frowned. “You can hire bodyguards or people to protect you—even buy your own weapons.”

“We’ve already allowed private individuals to purchase standardized weapons from federal arms manufacturers. You can do that—but don’t talk about it openly.”

“This isn’t a good topic to discuss.”

They walked down a slope, and the caddie followed at the right moment.

The green was large, probably over a thousand square meters. Despite the winter, the grass was still lush, and the temperature was just right.

The tee box was behind a thirty-degree slope, making the uneven terrain a real test of skill.

Mr. Fitch took a club from the caddie, had the ball placed, and swung almost immediately.

The ball flew straight into the air, then dropped onto the green—fairly lucky.

Another caddie ran to the ball’s landing point, marked it, then picked it up.

This was to prevent two balls from colliding. It wasn’t common, but it had happened before—hence the precaution.

As Mr. Geruno lined up his shot, he continued, “But just because this proposal might hit a nerve, that doesn’t mean we, as businessmen, should bear consequences that were never ours to bear.”

“If the Security Act passes, at least those who wish us harm will find it much harder to act.”

He took a long time preparing. Then with a sharp swing, the club struck—grass flying.

That one shot would cost around thirty bucks just in turf repair.

They paused the conversation again, watching the ball fly, land on the green, and roll toward the hole.

Though it didn’t go in, it was clearly more skilled than Mr. Fitch’s, which had landed on the edge of the green.

“Nice shot,” Mr. Fitch said.

Mr. Geruno smiled as they walked toward the green. “No one can stop the will of the people.”

“Right now it’s just a stream. But if held back too long, it will become a flood—and it will destroy everything in its path.”

Mr. Fitch looked contemplative. He stood before his ball, thought for a moment, then struck decisively. Though the ball was a bit far from the hole, it dropped in cleanly.

“I’ll consider it seriously.”

Mr. Geruno clenched his fist slightly. He knew he had convinced Mr. Fitch.